


Proving a Theory

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Connections, POV Greg Lestrade, POV Mycroft Holmes, Soulmate marks, Touch-Starved, Valentine's Day, abuse of statistics, mystrade soulmate week, smug and interfering younger brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: Fact: Only 10% of people have a soulmate. When they touch for the first time, a soulmark forms on their hand. There are many theories about soulmate characteristics and most have been rejected by intellectual circles.  Mycroft dismisses Sherlock’s claim that he has a mental link with his soulmate, John.  His brother’s hypothesis that a link has formed between Mycroft and Greg without touching is patently absurd.  The last straw is when Sherlock conducts an experiment on the two of them.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 519
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020, TDQ_FAVORITES, TDQ_FLUFF, TDQ_Sherlock





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of let my imagination run wild with the building of this particular soulmate universe, fascinated by how our society might be different in a world where soulmates exist. I let Sherlock and Mycroft’s analytical natures be the lightning rod for all my musings. But don’t get the wrong idea - this isn’t a treatise on the sociology of soulmates. It’s a romance. ;)

When Greg got into work, he was pleasantly surprised to see a box of doughnuts next to the coffee machine. He sent a silent thanks up to the pastry gods, snagging a sugar ring along with a cup of coffee. Closing the door to his office in the hopes of keeping the wolves at bay for a few minutes, he sat down and propped his feet up, biting into the delicious fried dough as he unfolded the Telegraph to see what fuckery was in store for the day. 

His eyebrows lifted as he saw that the main story was about Prince Oliver attending some event last night without gloves. It was reported that the Queen was severely displeased, ordering a circle of guards around him at all times. No one was allowed near him if they weren’t wearing gloves, not even those with a soulmark – people have been known to fake them. 

It was unknown why he made the decision to go gloveless, especially since it was soon clear that his hands were mark-free. The suspected reason was the growing discontent amongst the younger members of the aristocracy. According to the article, they believed it was obscene to prohibit or even delay connecting with their soulmate, if they had one. It didn’t matter if it turned out to be the gardener, they maintained it was unhealthy to attempt to thwart one’s fundamental body chemistry. They were advocating that all UK citizens should be glove-free entirely.

_Christ_ , Greg thought as he tossed the newspaper onto his desk and wiped the crumbs off his fingers with a stray napkin. He could only imagine what Twitter was like this morning. That particular debate about gloves has raged for years now, and this would be like pouring petrol all over it. 

Greg personally agreed with the younger generation’s perspective on delaying connections. He’d always wanted a soulmate, and even though he wasn’t counting on it happening - the odds _were_ only one in ten - he couldn’t imagine denying himself the chance to know.

On the other hand, even in the UK there were many folks wary of who they might be tying themselves to or disliked the idea of soulmates entirely. He couldn’t begrudge them the right to choose their own destiny, and for that reason he disagreed with folks who believed _everyone_ should be glove-free.

Besides, amongst the glove-wearing population are people who already have soulmates and don’t like to advertise the fact. The Chief Superintendent confided once that he has one, and he wore the gloves to protect her. Soulmates were always an enticing target for enemies. 

Greg often wondered which category Mycroft fell into. As if the man weren’t mysterious enough, he was one of those folks who wore gloves. Technically, he didn’t have to since he wasn’t royalty or even part of the aristocracy. But given that Mycroft was probably more important to the nation than any of the royalty combined, Greg wondered if perhaps he was obligated to wear them for his job. Or maybe he just found it convenient to wear them all the time, since he would have to don them anyways whenever he travelled to a country where it was required. There were a number of countries where restrictions on skin-to-skin touching were more severe than in the UK.

Greg didn’t like to think about _why_ he was so curious about Mycroft’s reasons for wearing gloves, far beyond what was typical. It was only human to wonder, he told himself. In fact, glove-wearing was frequently the subject of gossip, especially with celebrities, though it was considered horribly impolite to directly quiz someone about it. 

Greg recalled when Donovan and Anderson used to speculate why Sherlock wore gloves. He himself hadn’t cared that much. He had his own ideas, but never voiced them aloud and never gave it much thought after his initial theory. In the end, he’d been right – Sherlock admitted he disliked the idea of soulmates and believed they would interfere with The Work. According to John, it was a fluke that they touched hands. Sherlock had been in the middle of examining trace materials from a crime scene, creating slides and working the microscope. Delicate work that he didn’t want to fumble because of gloves, and so he’d taken them off. He’d forgotten about them entirely when John entered the lab and offered him his mobile.

John confided to Greg one time after a few pints that he sometimes wondered if Sherlock ever resented him for that touch. Tying him to a soulmate when he’d taken such measures to prevent that very thing. But then he smiled and said that Sherlock always knew when he was feeling insecure, and came up with inventive ways to demonstrate that he had zero regrets.

Greg envied them, and he wondered if that was why he was so fixated on Mycroft’s gloves. Were his reasons the same as Sherlock’s? Would he change his mind if something similar happened – an accidental touch that led to a soulmate? Would he allow himself the same happiness? 

Greg flushed at this train of thought. _Stop this_ , he told himself. Whatever Mycroft’s reasons, they deserved to be respected. Besides, if it was simply distaste at the idea, wouldn’t he have changed his mind once he saw how much it’s altered Sherlock for the better? If he could witness his brother finding such joy and still don the gloves every day, then he was either a very cold person or there were other compelling reasons. 

Greg sipped his coffee, his mind wandering to the incident last month when he was at Baker Street to go over a case and came very close to getting more information. He saw a pair of gloves sitting on the desk, and Sherlock mentioned that Mycroft had left them there on accident. John noted with amusement it was because the brothers had been in a raging argument, and Mycroft attempted to have the last word by sweeping dramatically out of the flat. Sherlock smiled maliciously and said he probably realised his error when he got to the front door, but refused to come back for them.

Greg asked why he had taken them off in the first place. Sherlock shrugged and said he never wore them around family. He was a very tactile person and liked having them off in personal spaces so that he could feel the texture of things. Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid reacting to that tidbit. Sherlock went on to note that he had been the same way before John. The gloves were a nuisance, hindering his ability to deduce his surroundings. He remarked that one of the side benefits of having a soulmate was that he no longer had to wear the damned things.

Greg wasn’t sure what made him decide to do a little fishing at that point. In hindsight, he’d been really transparent. He remarked in a casual tone, “If Mycroft doesn’t like wearing the gloves so much, I wonder why he even bothers with them now that you and John are together. Don’t the odds drop to 2% if someone in the immediate family already has a soulmate?” He felt a twinge of sadness as he said it, which he ignored. “Unless…he has one he’s shielding from the public eye.” 

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, and Greg realised immediately that he’d made a mistake in asking. John’s eyes widened and he quickly chimed in, “You know, a lot of people get that wrong, I think. That idea that your odds would go down. I don’t think it works like that. I think it’s still one in ten, it’s just rarer for it to _have happened_. It varies with each census, but it tends to average out to it happening 2% of the time.” John cleared his throat as Sherlock stared at him like he’d grown three extra heads. “Harry researched it after Sherlock and I got together. She’s still hoping to have a soulmate, especially afte-r she and Clara split. She was pretty upset when I told her the news, but now after swotting up, she’s sure that nothing has changed. The odds, I mean.”

Greg was grateful for John’s rambling attempt to distract Sherlock, but he knew it wasn’t working. Sherlock simply shook his head and remarked, “Your grasp of probability and statistics is appalling. But, that’s not the pressing concern here.” His gaze turned back to Greg. “Why are you quizzing me about the reason Mycroft wears gloves? John likes to tease me for being socially inept, but even I know that’s a huge faux pas.” 

Greg flushed, and attempted to reply nonchalantly, “No, you’re right. It’s the detective in me. I’m always looking for anything out of the ordinary and then try to find out why.” Sherlock’s hawk-like gaze remained steady on him, and Greg tried to think of a reason to bolt. 

John came to his rescue again. “Oh come off it, Sherlock, you do the same thing – lose all sense of propriety when something intrigues you. Remember that Margaret Thatcher shrine? You were obsessed with the idea that there was an empty space where that bust should have been, and you wouldn’t shut up about it _in front of a grieving family_.”

Sherlock huffed, but after seeing the expression on John’s face, he apparently decided to let it go. Waving his hand, he said, “I understand your instinct to meddle, but you must understand that I’m not about to share Mycroft’s secrets. His reasons for wearing gloves are his own.” 

Greg felt his face get even hotter and apologised. “Yeah, of course! He’s your brother and you want to protect his privacy. I dunno what I was thinking.”

Sherlock laughed. “Oh it isn’t filial devotion that keeps me quiet. If Mycroft found out I said anything, he’s more than capable of retaliating. It’s utterly tedious.”

Looking back on the conversation, Greg was relieved that he hadn’t made his interest in Mycroft too obvious. He didn’t need Sherlock on his back about this. It was a great risk he took and he didn’t even get the info he wanted. Greg sipped his coffee and tried to tell himself it didn’t matter anyway. Whether Mycroft had a soulmate, didn’t want one, or _couldn’t_ have one due to his career, the end result was that the elder Holmes brother was off limits. 

Most would argue that Greg was the one who was off limits, given that he was married. But most people didn’t know the state of said matrimony. If Mycroft ever deduced it, he didn’t say. Greg preferred not to talk about or even think of his erstwhile wife when in his company. 

Suffice it to say that both Mycroft and Greg came with their own ‘it’s complicated’ designations, and Greg knew he would just have to content himself with their relationship as it was – an odd sort of friendship that had developed over their mutual interest of Sherlock. He honestly felt privileged that it got even this far, given how closed off Mycroft was for several years after they first met to discuss Sherlock. ‘Met’ being a generous term, given that it was a kidnapping. Greg still jokingly called it kidnapping to this day, even though in the past year they met much more frequently and not always to discuss Sherlock. Mycroft retaliated against the teasing by continuing to have him picked up in the car at random intervals. 

Greg realised that it had been awhile since the most recent kidnapping. This must be why he was thinking so much about Mycroft this morning – he was overdue. He had a very strong feeling that today was the day, so he quickly logged into his calendar to see what his schedule looked like for the rest of the day. He was relieved to see that there was nothing of importance. He rescheduled a couple of things and then set a block of time in the early afternoon so no one would try to rope him into anything. 

Later, when Anthea picked him up right as he was walking back from lunch, he smiled to himself. It seemed like more often these days, he was able to guess correctly when it would happen. He even got lunch earlier than usual because something told him it would be better to get it out of the way.

*

Mycroft basked in the silence as he went through his e-mails. There were few places where he felt at home, and the Diogenes Club was one of them. There was something rare about being part of a community that went above and beyond in guarding their privacy. No one ever spoke. Everyone wore gloves. If any member appeared in the newspaper, that day’s edition was not delivered. The only familiarity was in seeing the same faces over and over throughout the years. It was so peaceful. 

It was why Mycroft preferred to meet Greg here whenever he could. The calm that the place radiated helped to settle his nerves at coming face to face with the enticing detective inspector. 

When Greg was escorted into the room, Mycroft’s eyes softened. He felt reminded of the first time he met the detective inspector. He was able to deduce right away that Greg was a romantic who longed for a soulmate. Longed for…but didn’t _hope_. After all, his file and his wedding ring said he was married. So, he must have at some point made the decision not to hold out for that 10% chance. 

At the time, Mycroft had admired his pragmatism. Most so-called ‘soulmantics’ ended up spending the bulk of their life chasing after a fantasy person. Most of the time they never met someone and ended up alone. Not that this was a bad thing in Mycroft’s view. It was better than those who _did_ get their fondest wish, and it was someone utterly incompatible that they had to upend their life to accommodate. 

It was a moot point for Mycroft, his aspirations did not include partnership of any kind. His work was too important. But someone like Greg… it must have been hard for him to set aside that foolish desire and be the engineer of his own happiness. Well, perhaps not _happiness_. That didn’t seem to describe Greg’s marriage. More like content with what he had.

Greg sat down opposite Mycroft and gave him a cheeky grin. “So what have you been up to today? Putting out fires after the stunt Prince Oliver pulled?”

Mycroft sniffed. “As if I would concern myself with the social foibles of the royal family. I deal with far more delicate political matters.”

Greg’s gaze was sharp, and it gave Mycroft an unexpected thrill. “You know well and good that more than one war has started because someone in a powerful position dared to doff their gloves. I’d say that’s pretty delicate.”

Mycroft sighed, pretending like he wasn’t truly impressed with Greg’s insight. “I fear you are right. It would be so much easier for everyone involved if the Prince kept himself covered up. I know you think otherwise. You agree with all those…bright young things that have the press and Twitter so enthralled with their cause celebre.”

Greg dropped his eyes, his smile turning rueful. “And how did you deduce that, Mycroft? I’ve never shared my opinion on that particular matter. What was it that gave me away? My tone of voice when I brought it up? The newspaper print on my fingers?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. In truth it was neither of those things, though he supposed they supported his conclusion. He’d just… _known_. He gave Greg a small smile. “Greg, we’ve known each other for four years. I think that’s long enough to be able to predict your views on any given situation.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Four years? Yeah, I suppose that’s long enough to know me. Except I can’t say the same about you. You’re still a bloody mystery. Not much of a detective am I?” Greg dropped his eyes, and Mycroft could have sworn they paused briefly on his gloves. 

Mycroft tucked his hands into his lap. “You’ve hardly had a chance to use your skills. Up until a year ago, our acquaintanceship mainly consisted of occasional short meetings where we discussed my brother. Even now that we spend time on other topics, I admit I’m not very forthcoming.”

“Whereas I’m an open book, I s’pose.” Greg’s smile was rueful.

Mycroft tilted his head. “I rather like that about you.”

Greg’s smile widened. “I rather like that we’ve become friends. The more we meet, the less we talk about Sherlock…maybe someday I’ll find out your favourite colour.”

Mycroft looked away, unable to sustain contact with Greg’s warm, chocolate gaze. Fortunately it was unlikely that Greg would ever guess that the answer was brown.

*

A few weeks later, Mycroft stopped by Baker Street to bring details on a case Sherlock had (to his great surprise and relief) agreed to take on. It had to do with a possible mole in his organization, and the fewer people involved, the better.

When Mycroft walked into the flat, John was in the kitchen making tea for the three of them. Sherlock was in his chair, his head buried in a book. _No Touch Necessary_ by Zohra Lari. Mycroft recognised it as a popular treatise on soulmate theory, and felt a flash of irritation. “Why are you reading that nonsense? Please tell me it’s for a case.”

Sherlock lowered the book, his expression calculating. “Not so much a case as a puzzle. I’ve been noticing certain behaviours lately that have me wondering if the phenomena described in this book are real.”

Mycroft glared. “Of course it’s not real, it’s utter rubbish. We’ve been over this before. What you and John experience is not a link. You are a genius with superior deduction skills, so of course it would _seem_ like you can read John’s mind.”

John set the tea tray down on the coffee table. “And what about my ability to know things about Sherlock?”

Mycroft sniffed. “You may not be a genius, but you do have a keen intellect. As a doctor and a soldier, you have the ability to read people well. _And_ you’ve lived with Sherlock for three years, so of course it would seem as if you share a brain. But that is all it is. There has never been conclusive proof that soulmates share some sort of mental link.”

Sherlock gave him a stubborn look. “We _do_ share a link, and it is a powerful one. But this book isn’t about soulmate links in general. It’s a very specific subset of the theory, regarding mental connections between two people who have not yet been confirmed to be soulmates.”

“ _Confirmed to be_ …don’t tell me you subscribe to that twaddle that soulmates are destined even before they meet?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “The destiny theory? I haven’t dismissed it entirely. It provides a neat explanation for why no one in all of recorded history has ever had more than one soulmate. Such a statistic is highly improbable unless there are mitigating factors. Every scientist who’s made a study of soulmate theory acknowledges that there must be _some_ reason why it has not happened.”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “The more logical hypothesis is that a person’s brain chemistry changes when they obtain a soulmate or when their soulmate dies, making it impossible for a bond to form with another.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Agreed, but that theory has never been proven, no matter how many soulmates have donated their bodies to science. The soulmark is and always has been the _only_ physiological indication. Anyway, I wasn’t referencing the destiny theory when I said, ‘confirmed to be.’ I was talking about the untouched theory as it is explained in this book. In this case, the hypothesis is that they were already soulmates before they touched, confirmed once they did.”

Mycroft pinched his nose. “Oh _that_. Forgive me for not keeping track of every crackpot notion put forth by people determined to romanticise the soulmate phenomenon.”

John snorted. “Would you listen to yourself? How can they romanticise something that is, by its very definition, romantic?”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “By ascribing more significance to it than it deserves. Soulmates are not destined. Soulmates do not have mental links. And people only become soulmates once they’ve _touched_.”

Sherlock held up the book. “Not according to this. The author did extensive research and produced some compelling evidence that it is possible for soulmates to form a link before they even touch. Fascinating read. Do you know that most people who are soulmates will touch each other within a year of meeting? In societies where touching is commonplace, it usually happens right away or at most within three months. It takes longer in societies where touching is forbidden until the person is considered suitable. The odds of establishing soulmarks is also much lower in those places because of the restrictions. There were probably loads of people who would have had soulmates but they were never allowed to touch.” 

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the book. “The author researched soulmates who took much longer than a year to finally come together. They were generally people in different social classes or one or both had taken to wearing gloves because they didn’t want a soulmate. In each case, there were all sorts of clues that made them realise in hindsight they already shared a connection before they touched. They just didn’t understand what was happening.” 

“It’s circumstantial. A series of coincidences.”

“So you have read it.” Sherlock’s eyes danced.

Mycroft huffed. “I skimmed it. It led to such an uproar with politicians and the privileged classes when it first came out that I wanted to be informed.”

John smirked. “And of course you instantly dismissed it. Just like all the others who are determined to avoid a soulmate bond, you don’t want it to be true because it would mean you can’t control it.”

Mycroft scowled, gripping his umbrella. “I will not have my own life decided for me by…by…some arbitrary…” He petered out, frustrated as always by his own lack of understanding of why some people have soulmates and others don’t. In the history of the human race, no one has ever successfully pinpointed with accuracy how it happens. Theories abound, most of them complete rubbish, and Mycroft was tired of being inflicted with them. 

The more pragmatic folks assumed that soulmates happen because there is an unusually high number of points of compatibility. This was where matchmakers came in – they try to predict who will be soulmates by charting all the similar or complementary parts of their personality. Then there are those who believe it is merit-based. It was a popular notion with religious people, that only the strongly moral are ‘deserving’ of soulmates, and kept people warming the pews every Sunday. 

The most ridiculous group were the soulmantics, who believe that only folks who are open to love will find their soulmate. They find the practice of glove wearing abhorrent. They are also the ones most susceptible to so-called ‘soul readers’ who, similar to fortune tellers, charge exorbitant fees to people eager to know whether they will get a soulmate. Their success rate was worse than fortune tellers, because the latter tended to look for patterns of behaviour to predict someone’s future, and people always did follow to type. Soulmates did not follow any types. All the theories of compatibility, morality, and tender-heartedness have been proven to be completely false. Soulmated couples were often incompatible, frequently lacked morals, and Sherlock was proof positive that someone who was thoroughly opposed to soulmates could obtain one.

“It _is_ arbitrary,” Sherlock murmured, and Mycroft’s sharp gaze shifted to him. “That much is true, whether one believes in destiny or not. You can’t get a soulmate by being more worthy than anyone else. School mates like to taunt each other by saying that no one would want them as a soulmate, and unfortunately such childish notions have a nasty habit of sticking with people into adulthood.”

Mycroft flushed. He closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at his brother as he brought his emotions under control. Sherlock always knew how cut right to the heart of things, with devastating accuracy. He savagely pushed down the feelings and memories of his youth that threatened to surface. _Not now._ “You still haven’t explained why you are reading such folderol.”

Sherlock fidgeted with the book. “Your deductions about Lestrade.”

Mycroft felt a trickle of dread about where this was going. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock set down the book and levelled a calculating gaze at Mycroft. “You may be able to fool everyone else, but you are my brother and we think very much alike. I know how you make deductions, I make them the same way. People seem to think that it’s a magic trick or that we’re mind readers, but we are very much reliant on what we observe. And I observed some very suspicious behaviour at the Christmas party last week.”

Mycroft was unable to suppress the flush that rose up his neck. God almighty, had Sherlock actually seen the way he was looking at Greg, detected his attraction? _Mortifying_. He lifted his chin. No, Sherlock was talking about deductions. He did recall making a few, emboldened by Greg’s delight at his accuracy. “You mean my observations about his family and his plans for Christmas? It was child’s play!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I disagree. One or two points I was able to follow, but most of it came out of thin air.”

Mycroft felt prickly. “You forget that there are times when the Detective Inspector and I meet for dinner. We talk about topics other than yourself.”

Sherlock sneered. “I’m sure you do. I thought about that, but Lestrade’s surprise at your accuracy indicated that he never gave you a hint in prior conversations.”

Mycroft gripped the file in his hand tightly, wanting to change the subject and get to the reason why he was here in the first place. But he knew if he deflected now, he would have lost. “You also forget that I had Lestrade thoroughly investigated when you met. I know many details about his personal life.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “So you’re saying that your file on him contains that little anecdote about a young Lestrade watching his brother slice his finger open while cleaning fish, and ever since then he feels phantom pain whenever he sees someone cutting food. My my, your operatives are quite thorough.”

Mycroft felt his breathing stutter as he remembered that moment at the party. John had been carving a slice of turkey at the buffet table, and Greg had been staring at him, rubbing his thumb along his fingers in an agitating manner. Mycroft was well into his cups by that point, buoyed by Greg’s admiration from previous deductions in the evening. Mycroft blurted out the whole story, picturing it in his head clear as day. Greg’s admiring expression still warmed him. 

Mycroft saw that Sherlock was waiting for an explanation. “I saw him worrying at his fingers as he watched John carefully, his shoulders tense. I knew it must be some past trauma related to a knife injury while cutting food. It wasn’t his own injury, there is no scarring on his hand, so someone close to him. He showed no actual distress, it was mostly a reflex, so it must be an old memory…likely a family member. Um…” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “So how did you know it was his brother, and not one of his two sisters? Or a parent? How did you know it was _fish_?”

Mycroft remembered that he’d practically been able to smell the brackish odour, the shock of red blood. “I…I was drunk, Sherlock. It’s a bit hard for me to recollect the logical progression of my deduction.”

Sherlock stood up and approached Mycroft. “ _Or_ it wasn’t a deduction and you were seeing his memory through a mental link.” 

Mycroft took a step back. “That’s ridiculous! It was a deduction! It’s how my mind works, I see the clues and it…it paints a picture in my head. There had to have been something else that I saw which drew out those extra details, I just simply cannot recall what it was. Blame it on the Christmas punch!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I would have seen it too, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s irritation spiked. “Not necessarily, Sherlock, you know I’m better at this than you!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be entrusting this to me.” His eyes flicked to the file still in Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft felt waves of frustration roil through him. “This is different. You are able to keep your head when it comes to a case. The reason I’m better than you on a personal level is that _I_ haven’t allowed my judgment to be clouded. You believe you have this wondrous connection to John that allows you to know what he had for lunch. You’re determined to see romance and fairy tales around every corner.”

Sherlock looked at him in amazement. “Just listen to you. You’re so shaken by what I’ve told you that you’re spouting nonsense. I’m right, Mycroft, and you know it.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! If I could remember how I did it, I would tell you! I really would, because then you would shut up and leave me in peace!”

Sherlock took a step closer. “If you want to prove to me that all your deductions about Lestrade are pure observation, I know just the way to do it.” He leaned over and whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “Take off your gloves…and _touch_ him.”

Mycroft flinched away. “I can’t do that, and you know it! He is a married man, it would be completely inappropriate!”

John, who was stuffing a biscuit into his mouth, put his finger in the air. “If you and Greg are soulmates, his marriage would be null and void immediately. Wouldn’t be worth the paper the certificate was printed on.”

Mycroft gave him an imperious look. “You’re suggesting I should deliberately break up a marriage?”

John’s mouth turned down. “His marriage is already broken. Deb’s cheating on him.”

Mycroft stared at him, utterly gobsmacked. “H-he’s not told me about this. Surely he would have said if he was getting a divorce.”

John shrugged. “They aren’t. Don’t see the point. If either of them meets a soulmate, it will end automatically. Until that happens, it’s cheaper to stay together. Divorces lawyers are expensive, and so is living in London if you’re single.”

Mycroft sucked in a breath of air, shocked at what he was hearing. It was one thing for Greg to be pragmatic. But he was consigning himself to a loveless marriage, forced to see every day the woman who betrayed him. 

_Greg_. He felt something shudder within him. Anticipation? Trepidation? Mycroft suddenly felt discomposed and he spent a few moments straightening his tie, smoothing down the line of his jacket, and running his hand through his hair to make sure it stayed put. He looked back towards Sherlock, who was giving him a curious look. “I’m not…I can’t…this discussion is so far beyond appropriate. I am begging you to drop it and please focus on the case.” He tried not to let the distress bleed into his voice and wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh and went over to sit in his chair. He held out his hand, waving it imperiously. Mycroft set his jaw at the absurd little power play. Sherlock had been standing right next to him, he could have just taken the folder. Ignoring the voice that warned him he might annoy Sherlock into refusing to take the case, he held up the file, stretching his arm out in a gesture indicating that Sherlock get up and retrieve it. 

They both stayed that way in a frozen tableau for several moments until John muttered, “for _fuck’s_ sake,” and stomped over to grab the file and then walk the several steps over to slap it unceremoniously into Sherlock’s hand.

Mycroft was itching to leave, but he waited while Sherlock flicked through the data, in case he had some questions that could be answered right away. There was utter silence in the room as Sherlock turned the pages of the file, until it was broken by the sound of the front door buzzing and Mrs. Hudson shuffling to answer it. Mycroft tensed up for a moment, then relaxed when he heard feet upon the stairs. Based on the creaking of the wood, he knew it was Greg. From the hurriedness of the steps, he knew it was a case – a quite serious one. Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, who was smirking at him with a gleam in his eyes. He said in an exasperated tone, “You know it’s him, too!”

Sherlock closed the file. “If you mean his tread on the stairs and that he’s bringing me a case that’s at least an eight, that’s not what I was thinking about. Something odd I saw earlier has now been explained. Oh, this is _too_ good. It’s Christmas all over again.” His eyes were flashing with deductions and Mycroft felt a sense of foreboding.

Greg stepped into the flat at that moment, full of nervous energy. Not excited like Sherlock would be. He did not enjoy the puzzle of solving a crime so much as he had a keen desire to bring terrible people to justice. It filled Greg with adrenaline and purpose, and Mycroft knew it was deeply inappropriate to find it as sexy as he did. “Sherlock, there’s been a triple murder. A family. We need to catch these bastards.” He did a double take when he saw Mycroft standing off to the side. “Mycroft!” His expression softened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting.”

Mycroft waved a hand. “Not at all, Detective Inspector. The matter I was discussing with Sherlock is a long-term project and can certainly wait. Please, go on.” Greg’s lips twitched into a smile of thanks before he turned back to Sherlock.

Mycroft tuned out the ensuing details of the grisly homicide and attempted to think of what it was that had made Sherlock light up at Greg’s arrival. He mentally reviewed that last few minutes over and over, but could not think what it was. He found his mind wandering back to what Sherlock had said earlier about the cruelty of children. In his youth, Mycroft was quite often told by his peers that he was unloveable. And he might have been able to shake it off if he hadn’t had the same impression from the adults in his life. They should have known better, but he would never forget overhearing one conversation between his mother and a neighbour lady. 

Mycroft was fifteen, and already feeling the effects of being gay, ginger, and far too intelligent for his classmates to tolerate. Sherlock was eight and only just starting to be irritated with the other kids’ fascination with soulmates. He asked Mycroft once why people cared so much, pointing out that their parents were not soulmates and still loved each other very deeply. Mycroft had not known how to answer, because deep down inside he craved the idea of it. As the older child, he was often overlooked in favour of his brother, and the notion that there might be someone out there who would focus entirely on him…well, it was appealing.

The brothers were coming in from school and heading to the kitchen for tea and Mummy’s mince pies. They automatically paused when they heard voices. Their mother was talking about how charming it was that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate. It meant that he had a romantic and adventurous heart, and she believed that he was destined to have a soulmate. Mycroft’s heart started pounding, and he looked down at his little brother, who was coincidentally wearing a pirate hat. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled when he heard Mummy’s words, and he folded his arms in disgust. 

Another voice piped up, and Mycroft recognised it as Mrs. Turner next door. She asked about Mycroft’s prospects, and his mother’s response was that he was too ambitious to concern himself with such things. It was better if he didn’t have a soulmate as they would likely be neglected in favour of his work. 

Despite the fact that he now agreed with her assessment, it had been a blow at the time. His peers thought he was unloveable and his mother clearly thought he didn’t deserve such a ‘gift.’ It had been the nail in the coffin of whatever silly dreams he’d had, and from that point forward he doubled down on his career ambitions. He sometimes wondered if that had been a pivotal moment for Sherlock as well. His interest in piracy waned after that, replaced with a hardness that echoed Mycroft’s cynicism.

Mycroft started when John appeared by his side, asking if he wanted his tea before it got cold. He realised that he hadn’t so much as sat down since he came in. He’d been standing this whole time, as if poised for flight. It was likely true, given the topic of soulmates which agitated him so much. He shook his head. “No, I should take my leave. Sherlock will be preoccupied with this murder case, so no point in me being here.” 

He looked over at where Sherlock and Greg had their heads together and found that part of him wanted to stay just so he could continue to be in Greg’s presence. But such thoughts were dangerous, and so he turned towards the door. A gravelly voice called, “Leaving already?” 

He turned back to see Greg gazing at him. “I’ve concluded my business with Sherlock, and I’m afraid have a pressing engagement,” he smoothly lied.

Greg gave him a smile that seemed to twist a little. “Oh, you have a hot date for New Year’s Eve?”

Mycroft blinked in surprise. “I’m afraid I did not even notice that it was the 31st. My plans involve work, as usual.” That part was true enough.

John piped up, “D’you have plans, Greg?”

Greg shook his head. “Nah, I agreed to catch duty for tonight so others could go enjoy themselves. S’not like Deb will care, she’s going out with friends.” His expression conveyed that he didn’t believe it was ‘friends’ but that he didn’t much care. Mycroft’s heart wrenched. 

John clapped Greg on the back. “Looks like we’ve caught duty as well, if Sherlock’s expression is anything to go by.” Sherlock ignored them all as he had begun typing furiously on John’s laptop.

Mycroft opened the door and then nodded his head to the room at large. “I hope you are successful in your endeavours…and have a Happy New Year.” He forced himself to look away from Greg’s soft smile when he returned the sentiment, and went down the stairs. 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg bit his lip as he watched Mycroft go. Despite the other man’s impassive demeanor, Greg had felt the unhappiness radiating from across the room while he was talking to Sherlock. Greg wondered if it was loneliness, or if he was just projecting his own feelings. Which of them was more sad - him for being on call, or Mycroft for not even remembering it was New Year’s Eve? Now that he’s seen Mycroft, Greg found that he wished they were spending it together. 

Greg went to go see what Sherlock was researching, and saw the folder sitting next to Sherlock’s chair. It was marked confidential. “So is this the long-term project Mycroft mentioned earlier?” Sherlock murmured something that sounded like affirmation. “I remember there was a time you would do anything rather than take one of his cases. Glad to see that’s changed.”

Sherlock huffed. “He’s far too reliant on me to do the legwork. Won’t get his hands dirty with espionage.”

Greg snorted. “Oh, you know you like to be the one running around in the field. You and John both, you thrive off adventures. _And_ I know you secretly prefer your brother’s cases to mine because unlike me, he’ll look the other way while you flaunt the law. Face it, Sherlock, you’re like a pirate. The Dread Pirate Sherlock.”

John giggled. “You’ve managed to figure out his little secret! He hates for anyone to know he’s obsessed with pirates.”

Sherlock glared at them both. “Don’t be absurd, I’m not obsessed. Mycroft must have said something, the traitor. Lestrade…have I told you about his passion for cake?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I already know about the cake, Sherlock. And Mycroft didn’t tell me anything. I just…had this image in my head of you as a little kid wearing a pirate hat, sneaking around and listening in at doors.” Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “Never mind, let’s just get back to my case. The sooner we catch this guy…”

The next morning (afternoon really), Greg woke up with a raging hangover. He always forgot how too much sparkling wine went straight to his head and punished him for it the next day. Donovan kept refilling his glass over and over, and he’d not paid attention. Everyone was just so happy that they’d caught the killer (with Sherlock’s help) and were able to wrap the case in time for their shift to be over. They’d ended up at a pub to celebrate both new year’s and solving the case. Even Sherlock and John tagged along, and it really felt good to let loose. But he was paying the price now. 

As he slowly sat up in bed, he had a sudden memory of the dream that woke him up. It had been of Mycroft, except he was much younger. He was thinking about soulmates and how he’d never have one because he wasn’t worthy. In the dream, Mycroft’s thoughts were a jumble of other kids at school and his mother being dismissive, it was hard to follow. But the gist was that he started wearing gloves as a symbol of putting work first, a reminder that he should never allow himself to hope.

Greg ran a hand over his face, his breathing unsteady as he practically felt Mycroft’s loneliness bury into his skin. It was just a dream! It could be the reason why Mycroft wore gloves, but it was more likely that Greg was just projecting. 

He got up and went to take a piss, then fetched a glass of water and paracetamol. He climbed back into bed and waited for the pain reliever to kick in so he’d have enough energy to go make some coffee. As he lay there, he found himself thinking about this new theory of Mycroft. If the dream scenario was truly his reason for the gloves, then he wouldn’t mind a soulmate if it were to happen accidentally, like with his brother. 

Greg found his mind wandering into an indulgent fantasy wherein he stepped up to Mycroft and gently placed his hands on his face, watching as the soulmark burnt into his hand. They would both gasp at the pain and the shock, but then Greg would tug Mycroft’s head down to kiss him deeply, ardently. Greg turned on his side, shaking his head. Is this what he’d come to, daydreaming scenes straight out of soulmance films? 

Greg got out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. The image of kissing Mycroft wouldn’t leave his head. It was the part of his little fantasy that he craved more than anything. Wanted to feel their lips slide together, hear Mycroft make a soft noise as Greg gathered him into his arms and showed him just how much he is cherished. Greg’s steps faltered as he realised he didn’t even care about a mark forming. He just wanted to touch him so, so much. Tell him that he was absolutely worthy of being loved. When he got to the kitchen he placed his hands on the counter to steady himself. It wasn’t the hangover hitting him like a ton of bricks. It was realising that he was in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Greg took deep breaths to calm himself, skimming his eyes around the kitchen. He saw a plate in the sink with crumbs and bits of jam. Deb was already up and off doing who knows what. Greg closed his eyes. She was his wife, but there was such a disconnect between them now that he may as well be sharing a flat with a stranger. 

If he was honest with himself, he supposed that there had never been a real connection. They’d been in their mid-thirties, both having given up the notion of soulmates but still craving companionship. They met on a dating app and hit it off easily. That’s what it had always been with her – easy. One date led to another, and another. Sex with her was lovely, and waking up next to her even lovelier. They fell into a pattern until one day a year and a half later Deb casually mentioned that her lease was ending soon. Of all the things that got them talking about marriage…a _lease_. 

And now it was a lease keeping them together. They’d spent a decade getting very used to the disposable income that sharing living expenses allowed. When Greg found out that Deb cheated, he couldn’t muster up any anger or sadness. Instead, he found it hilarious that her main concern was that he didn’t leave her and force her to pay full rent on their flat. So, they decided to remain married out of convenience. Greg knew what she was thinking, because it was the same thought in his head, “…unless a soulmate comes along.” 

It’s been almost nine months since the start of this arrangement, since Greg moved into the second bedroom and their general avoidance of each other. Greg still didn’t have a soulmate, but…he’s now realised he’s in love with Mycroft. It might not legally change anything, but emotionally…it was like trying to shine a light in an airless crypt. He was surrounded by the death of his marriage, yearning for something special with this man that he loved.

Greg straightened up from his musings and went through the motions of making coffee. He needed to figure out what to do. What did he want? What was achievable? The first question was easily answered – he wanted Mycroft. But could he have him? His dream, which he knew was in no way a reliable barometer, said that Mycroft wanted love and was just denying himself the possibility. Greg could present it as a fait accompli: _Here, Mycroft, you already have my love. Please take it._ He could do that…and be utterly humiliated when Mycroft turned him down, saying he was married to his work or something. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to unceremoniously thrust his feelings onto Mycroft, with his heart in his eyes and his fingers trembling with the need to touch him. Perhaps it would be better to take things slowly, feel him out, see if his dream was right. Greg huffed out a laugh and then took his first sip of bracing coffee. Was he really considering wooing Mycroft Holmes? Of course he was, how could he not? He’d spent his adult life being open to love, but never pursuing it, and look where that got him.

Greg looked around. He couldn’t keep living with Deb anymore, couldn’t stay married to her. Mycroft would rightly not take any overtures seriously if he was still tied to another person. Greg rubbed his face again, feeling prickles of frustration. Even the simplest of divorces took ages. _Not if you were soulmates_ , his traitorous mind supplied. Unhelpful! Greg finished his coffee and then went to go find his mobile so he could text Deb and set up a time for them to have a serious talk.

*

Mycroft was used to being the one watching everyone else, observing them, evaluating them. But now he was sure that a lens had been firmly turned on him and he didn’t know why. Sherlock liked to deduce him, but usually it was quick and dirty looking for something with which to make a snide remark. Not anymore. Sherlock was up to something, and whatever it was involved him assessing Mycroft with a keen eye every moment they were in each other’s company.

That happened to be a lot these days, as Sherlock worked to find out which of Mycroft’s agents was a bad seed. Mycroft had got into the habit of visiting his brother two or three times a week to get updates. As preoccupied as he was with the case, it took him a bit of time to notice that he was being given the same level of scrutiny as a specimen in his brother’s microscope. He started to feel uncomfortable and irritated, but he knew it was a waste of time to demand what Sherlock was up to. For all Mycroft knew, the whole _point_ was to make him uncomfortable.

The other thing unnerving him was how often Greg came over while he was there. There never seemed to be a pattern of reason or pattern of frequency. In fact, it was the apparent randomness of every encounter that led to Mycroft being suspicious that it was not random at all. He began making his own observations, and sure enough, every single time Greg came over, it was preceded by an oh-so-casual text by either Sherlock or John. They were _summoning_ him.

Not that such encounters were unwelcome. Or at least they wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Sherlock’s theory about him sharing a mental connection with Greg. Perhaps that was why his brother was ever watchful, even when Greg wasn’t there. Hoping he would casually say something about Greg that it would be illogical for him to know? Or that he would make a deduction when Greg was there? Mycroft became more and more paranoid about what his brother was up to, even going so far as keeping a physical distance from Greg at all times in the off chance that Sherlock was planning to trip one of them so they’d fall against each other.

Often they would end up leaving Baker Street together, at which point Mycroft was able to relax his guard. It was bittersweet to be spending so much time with Greg recently. On the one hand, these outings made him unbearably happy. Greg was such a lovely companion in so many ways, and lately he has been quite attentive. But all these things served to increase the ache in his heart which he still didn’t want to examine. Down that road lay much sorrow, he was sure. 

The fifth time Greg showed up at Baker Street while Mycroft was there, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore. This time he stuck around when Greg left. After hearing the front door shut, Mycroft turned to Sherlock. From the smirk upon his face, it was clear his brother knew that he’d finally cracked. “I know you’re dying to tell me what you’ve been up to these past six weeks. Please just get on with it.”

Sherlock flopped down into his chair with a self-satisfied smile. “John, would you make us…”

“Already done, you git.” John set a tea tray down on the coffee table, and Mycroft felt a prickle of déjà vu.

Sherlock beamed. “Excellent. My brother will need fortification for when he attempts to refute the results of my experiment.”

Whatever hope Mycroft had that his recent paranoia was unfounded went up in smoke. With a sigh he sat down on the sofa and gratefully took the cup John offered. “Go on.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his expression intent. “The morning of December 31st, when we were having our heated discussion regarding soulmate theory, you did something rather curious. You started _fidgeting_. More specifically, you exhibited grooming traits to make sure your appearance was immaculate. This behaviour is very atypical of you. I have only seen it on two other occasions, and both times it was after Lestrade arrived on the scene unexpectedly. This time, it was _before_ he arrived.”

Mycroft suddenly knew where this was leading…what hypothesis his brother had formed and subsequently tested. He had to quell the urge to get up and walk out so he wouldn’t hear the results. It was quite obvious from the triumph radiating from his brother that he had compelling evidence he was going to take great delight in sharing. “Sherlock,” he attempted a firm tone. “May I remind you that because of your bias, no observations you make can be considered conclusive.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his expression serene with confidence. “John,” he prompted, and held out his hand. John gave him a look that was a mix of fondness and exasperation, and handed him a notebook. Sherlock flipped through a few pages. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out my methods, so let’s skip to the conclusion. You have visited me a total of eleven times in the six weeks since I started this experiment. I summoned Lestrade to Baker Street five times. The six times he did not appear, you did not exhibit any unusual behaviours. In the five he did, you showed clear signs of agitation an average of six minutes before he appeared at the front door. These signs included adjusting your tie, smoothing your hair, buttoning your jacket, straightening up in your chair. On one memorable occasion, you stood up and poured a glass of scotch, but then didn’t touch it. When Lestrade came in, he was visibly upset about something that happened at work and you _handed it to him_.”

Mycroft flushed deeply. His voice barely above a whisper, he insisted, “You must understand, Sherlock, this case has me under a great deal of strain. Of course I’m going to show signs of anxiety. Contrary to popular belief, I am not made of stone.”

Sherlock burst out of his chair. “You stubborn fool!” Mycroft was taken aback by his vehemence. “You are denying yourself happiness because of what? Childhood bullies? The ramblings of our dear sweet mother? She means well, but she doesn’t know any more what she’s talking about than your average soul reader.”

“But she was right,” Mycroft whispered roughly. “You have a soulmate. I do not.”

Sherlock threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging until Mycroft was genuinely worried he’d pull out clumps of hair. “That’s because you are wearing gloves! You’ve made it a self-fulfilling prophecy, you ridiculous man!”

Mycroft crumpled in on himself. “Please stop, Sherlock. _Please_. I cannot do this. If I touch him and we aren’t soulmates, it will crush me. If we are soulmates, how can I know that he truly has feelings for me and it’s not just…that he’d be compelled… He’s married, for Christ’s sake! They may be going through a rough patch, but what if they could have made up…I can’t just swoop in and claim him. Leave him with no choice.”

Sherlock and John stared at him in amazement. Sherlock seemed to be so stunned that he started blinking rapidly. John came over and sat next to him. “Do you really believe that soulmates wouldn’t feel that love if it weren’t for the soulmark?”

Mycroft tried to regulate his breathing, but he was quickly becoming quite anxious. “Well, of course they are forced! They don’t have control over it, no choice. One minute they are free to direct their own life, and the next they are tied to a…a…a stranger! I find the idea of someone being with me out of obligation utterly appalling.”

Sherlock sat down heavily. “I am truly sorry, brother mine. I spend so much time keeping you at arm’s length that you apparently have no idea how completely happy I am.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I was once just as much against soulmates as you are. But at no point since this mark burnt itself into my hand have I ever considered myself _obliged_ to do anything!” He lifted his head to look at Mycroft, his eyes blazing. 

Mycroft looked away, chastened. He’d been speaking in generalities, but Sherlock apparently took his words personally. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean you. Of course you’re happy, I know that.”

“Do you?” The words came from John, the tone bitter. “Look, we all know that it’s random in the sense that you never know who’s going to have a soulmate. But the pairing itself…that’s _not_ random. There’s no trickster god throwing darts at a giant board to see who will be matched up. When people become soulmates, it’s because something fundamental inside each of them clicks. They will love each other for all time. I honestly believe that if Sherlock and I had met in another universe where soulmarks don’t happen, we would have fallen in love anyway.”

Sherlock reached over to the bookshelf and pulled out _No Touch Necessary_. “The people interviewed for this study fell in love with their soulmates before they ever touched. They weren’t forced into anything. You _could_ say it was out of their control, that they weren’t given a choice…but doesn’t that always happen with love? Our own parents fell for each other without intending to.” It was true, Mycroft acknowledged to himself. Mummy loved to tell them all about the stuffy Cambridge fellow she was dating because he was a good match from a good family. She ended up falling head over heels for Father that summer in Brighton when he was working in an ice cream shop.

Mycroft opened his mouth, not sure what to respond, but John spoke again. “Greg’s getting a divorce.” Mycroft whipped his head around. “He’s been keeping it a secret from everyone. We only found out because his wife called while we were in his office. They had an argument about something she took when she moved into her boyfriend’s flat. He didn’t want to talk about it, said his reasons were very personal and he wasn’t ready to share them yet.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, inexplicably hurt that Greg hadn’t confided in him. He felt a moment of dread where he wondered if it was because Greg now had a soulmate, but then relaxed when he remembered that he’d seen Greg earlier and there was no soulmark on his hand. He cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it. If we shared some sort of mental connection, wouldn’t I have somehow known that already? It came as an utter surprise.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You would only know if he was actively thinking about it while you were nearby. The link is stronger in proximity, though there have been rare exceptions of long distance impressions.”

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was clearly convinced of his hypothesis and it seemed unlikely he was going to change his mind unless something happened to prove him wrong. Like if Greg becomes soulmates with someone else. Mycroft felt something constrict inside at the very idea. 

Mycroft felt his mobile buzz, and he glanced at the screen. It was Anthea. The situation in Japan was worsening. He would have to go. He felt irritation that he’d have to travel halfway around the world in order to deal with misbehaving diplomats. But at the same time it would give him some distance from his brother, from Greg, from the distress that was threatening to suffocate him. “I must take my leave.”

John smirked. “Saved by the bell?”

Mycroft lifted his chin and replied in icy tones, “Yes, a very convenient crisis has arisen in Japan. I am _so_ grateful to bumbling ambassadors for contriving my departure.”

*

It happened when he was in the middle of a meeting that had been going on three hours and felt even longer. Mycroft felt exhausted and annoyed, and he didn’t let any of it show. His demeanor, as always, was smooth as glass. Which was why it was utterly shocking to the room at large when he suddenly gasped and dropped the glass of water he’d been holding. Mycroft didn’t even notice the glass shattering on the ground, all he felt was a burning sensation followed by confusion. The confusion was followed by fear so intense his body quaked from it. He could not understand what was happening to him. These sensations did not belong to him. Yes, he was confused and afraid, but it was merely a layer on top of what _someone else_ was experiencing.

“If you will excuse Mr. Holmes for one moment.” Mycroft felt himself being steered out into the hallway by Anthea. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Mycroft pulled out his mobile. “Call Sherlock,” he instructed the device and it sprang to life. His brother answered almost immediately. “Sherlock…what happened to Greg?” His voice cracked as it rose.

There was a long pause. “He’s been injured, just a minute ago. We were chasing a suspect and he took a shot at us. Caught Lestrade in the thigh. John’s administering first aid and Donovan’s called for an ambulance.” Mycroft bit his lip to keep from whimpering in fear. “Mycroft, did you…were you able to feel it? Are you back in London already?”

“No, I’m still in Japan. But I’m taking the next flight back. Sherlock…tell John to keep him alive and well. I could not bear it…” A sob escaped and he couldn’t speak anymore. He pressed a button to end the call. He croaked out, “Anthea, make the arrangements.” She nodded gravely and pulled out her blackberry. Her hands shook slightly. Clearly she understood the significance of what just happened.

Mycroft faced the doorway and took several calming breaths. When he felt composed enough, he stepped back into the room. “Ladies, gentlemen, I apologise for before. I am afraid I must remove myself from the proceedings. A family emergency. My soulmate has been gravely injured.” Not waiting for any response, he turned and left the room again.

*

Greg tapped his mobile screen, wondering if he should text Mycroft to let him know what happened. He knew he was back in London within the past hour, had felt the gradual settling of his mind. He wasn’t sure, though, what to text that wouldn’t sound needy. _I’ve been shot. I’m on the mend but I’m a mess emotionally. I need you to come to hospital and hold my hand._ That likely wouldn’t go over well.

His injury was pretty minor as far as gunshot wounds go, and he probably fared better than he would have if John hadn’t been there. Having a former combat surgeon around came in handy. But those few minutes where he had no way of knowing how bad it was…it had felt like an eternity. He’d been terrified of bleeding out, didn’t want his life to end. He also thought about Mycroft and felt a keen regret that he would never know if there was a chance with him. 

He hadn’t told Mycroft about filing for divorce, not wanting him to deduce the reason why. Greg felt like he should wait until everything was final before sitting down with Mycroft and having that conversation. But now he was thinking he didn’t want to wait. He needed to tell Mycroft how he felt about him. Greg looked down at his mobile again, and suddenly felt overwhelmed with anxiety. He started to text Mycroft to tell him everything was going to be okay. As he typed the words, Greg wondered if something happened on his trip. He also wondered how the hell he even knew something was wrong with Mycroft.

A noise across the room startled Greg before he could hit send. He looked up and saw Mycroft standing there. Greg’s eyes went wide as he took in his appearance. Mycroft was missing his jacket, his tie was askew and shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His hair was slightly mussed as if he’d been running his fingers in it. He was grey-faced and staring at Greg with an intensity that made him shiver. “I got an update from Sherlock on your condition, so I knew you were okay. But I…I had to see for myself.”

As he came into the room, Greg couldn’t stop the soft smile that spread across his face. “You came straight from the airport just to see me?”

Mycroft sat down in the chair next to him. “Greg, you’ve been shot. How could I be anywhere else?” Warmth flooded Greg at the words. “Wait…you said airport. How did you know? Did Sherlock tell you?”

Greg felt a trickle of foreboding. He contemplated lying, but that would just be delaying the inevitable. “Um…no, he hasn’t mentioned you. I just…just knew.”

Mycroft sat up a little straighter and his gaze sharpened. But despite his laser-like gaze, his voice was soft. “Tell me, Greg. How did you just _know_?”

Greg had never said this out loud to anyone, because he knew what people would think and he couldn’t deal with that sort of discussion. He’d read the stories, knew about the untouched theory. He wondered if Mycroft knew about it. How would he react to Greg’s confession? “It’s a feeling I’ve been getting from time to time. Like I’m restless and bereft, and there’s no reason for it. Whenever I felt this way, I’d have the urge to text you to ask you if you’d like to do dinner or something. And it seemed like every time I did, you always replied that you were out of the country and you would let me know when you were back in London. Then after a bit of time I’d start to feel better, settled. Always soon after that I’d get a text from you saying you were back, asking if I was still interested in dinner. I only started to notice the pattern about a month ago, but I think it’s been going on much longer.” 

Greg swallowed and he looked up at Mycroft. His gaze was still intent, but he didn’t look uneasy, merely fascinated. “So anyway, I got the usual restless feeling a few days ago. Didn’t even bother texting you, I knew you were gone. Then I got shot…” Mycroft visibly flinched at these words. “...and had all these other emotions to deal with. Didn’t realise you were still gone until suddenly you weren’t. I felt like a weight had lifted…that was about an hour ago. I knew then that you were back.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully for a few moments, then he asked in a careful voice, “And do you have these same…intuitive feelings…about anyone else?” Greg swallowed and shook his head. “Any other odd feelings of being…connected to me?”

Greg felt his face redden. “Just before you came in, I felt your distress. I didn’t know the reason, had no idea you even knew I’d been shot. I was about to send you a text.” He held up his mobile to show Mycroft the unsent text.

“ _Everything’s going to be okay_ ,” Mycroft recited the words, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Oh Gregory.” He looked up. “I’m sure you’ve speculated as to why this has been happening?”

Greg’s blush deepened. “Mycroft, I don’t want to scare you away from our friendship. I know how you feel about soulmates. The stuff from your childhood.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “We’ve never talked about that before, did Sherlock…?”

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t even know if it’s true. It was a dream I had. About your schoolmates and your mum.”

Mycroft looked amazed. “When was this?”

“New Year’s. Woke up with a raging hangover and the remnants of a very vivid dream. That was also when I realised how I felt about you. I used to long for a soulmate, but never dared believe I could be that lucky. But it took knowing you, knowing how I felt about you, to make me realise that I already felt like the luckiest bastard in the world. And no matter what happens next, all I ask is that you don’t run away from me. If friendship is all you can offer me, I’ll take it.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched. “Is this why you’re getting a divorce? John told me.”

Greg nodded. “I wanted to be completely free so you would know how serious I am about this. I want to give you everything of me. I…” He closed his eyes. “I wasn’t going to just come out with this, but being shot really messed with my head and I just…I need to tell you. And I feel like you want to hear it.” He opened his eyes. Mycroft was leaning forward in his chair, his expression one of longing. “I love you, Mycroft. And maybe if we were soulmates we’d feel more tied together. But I gotta say, I know with my whole heart that even without a soulmark I’m going to love you till I die.”

Greg was overwhelmed to see tears spilling from Mycroft’s eyes. “I love you, too, Gregory. I tried to bury it, because I didn’t think you could ever feel the same. But realising we were soulmates, I couldn’t deny it anymore. I’m so sorry, Greg, for wasting our time like this. Letting my insecurities delay our happiness.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you’ve realised we’re soulmates? How…when?”

“When I was in Japan. I _felt_ you getting shot. I felt the burning and your fear. I knew it was you and I somehow knew you were with Sherlock, so I called him and he told me what happened. I left the meeting I was in and took the first flight home. Greg, there’s no other explanation for what happened.” Mycroft held up his right hand, and with his left he started to peel off his glove. “It’s just a formality at this point.”

Tears sprang to Greg’s eyes and a sob escaped as he croaked, “ _Mycroft_. Is this really happening?”

Mycroft smiled at him tenderly. “It’s okay, darling, don’t be nervous. I suppose there’s a very remote chance that nothing’s going to happen. In which case I want you to know that I’m still committed to being with you. You have offered yourself to me, and so you are mine now. I promise.”

Greg nodded unsteadily, feeling his whole body shake. “It’s a good thing I’m on powerful pain killers. I’ve heard that this hurts like a bitch.”

Mycroft huffed out a watery laugh. “Hold out your hand and we’ll find out.” 

Greg held up his hand, his fingers spread out. Mycroft did the same and they touched palms. As they laced their fingers together, Greg felt a sudden burst of pain in his hand. Despite expecting it, it was still a shock, and he gasped in amazement as he watched a pattern form on the back of his hand. They held onto each other tightly as their soulmarks swirled and darkened, and Greg vaguely registered the sound of his heart monitor going off.

The attending nurse burst into the room, believing him to be in medical distress. She stopped short when she saw the two men with their hands grasped together. Greg unlaced his fingers from Mycroft, who seemed reluctant to let go. “It’s okay, ma’am.” He turned his hand so she could see the soulmark. 

She gaped as understanding dawned. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I’m relieved to know you weren’t dying in here. Congratulations, sirs! This is a momentous occasion.” Greg grinned from ear to ear.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Now that his vitals have returned to normal, do you mind?”

The nurse coloured and she huffed out a laugh. “Oh! Of course.” She hurried out of the room.

As soon as the door closed around her, Mycroft took Greg’s hand again. Greg felt a thrill go through him as Mycroft began stroking his fingers up Greg’s hand, then his arm, and back down again. “Feeling a bit touch starved?” Mycroft blushed and pulled his hands away. Greg used his freed hand to reach up and cup Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned into it. “I didn’t mean that you should stop, sweetheart. It’s to be expected. You’ve worn those gloves for so long. I bet you only ever let family touch you.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and nodded. He opened his eyes and gazed at Greg, lifting his hand to cup it over Greg’s. “Yes, exactly. And my family’s not very affectionate.”

Greg ran his thumb over Mycroft’s cheek. “I’m gonna remedy that. Touch you all the time.” Mycroft bit his lip, enormously pleased. “Hey, do me a favour. Come sit on the bed. I want to kiss you and I can’t do that with you all the way over there.”

Greg shifted over a little to allow room for Mycroft, who carefully climbed up until he was wedged in next to him. Mycroft rested his hand on Greg’s face, stroking down his cheek to his neck. It felt amazing. Greg grasped his loosened tie and tugged so that Mycroft leaned in and captured his lips. They both let out soft little sighs, though Mycroft’s may have been more of a moan. Based on the lack of finesse in Mycroft’s kissing, Greg realised that his rule of no touching must have been absolute. Which meant… Mycroft broke off the kiss to take a ragged breath. “Yes, Greg, that was my first kiss.”

“Christ, Mycroft. Then that means…” Mycroft nodded, burying his scarlet face into Greg’s neck. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, rubbing his back. “It’s alright, we’ll take it as slow as you need to.” 

There was a soft knock at the door, and after a few moments it opened to reveal Sherlock and John. “Ah, I see that my brother has made it back to London. Based on where he’s situated, do I even need to ask?”

Greg smiled so widely it made his cheeks hurt. Still keeping his arms firmly around Mycroft, he grasped Mycroft’s hand so that they could see the soulmark. Mycroft murmured into his neck, “I suppose he’s gloating, now.”

Greg turned his face a little to kiss the top of Mycroft’s head. “On the contrary, your brother looks quite delighted for you. I’ve only seen him happier when he looks at John.” Sherlock attempted to roll his eyes, but the affect was ruined by the wonky little V-shaped smile he couldn’t quite contain. 

John was grinning openly, and he reached for Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, let’s leave them to it.”

They turned to go, but stopped when Mycroft lifted his head. “Sherlock. I want to let you know that I appreciate all your efforts to get me to see reason. I’m only sorry I didn’t listen to you. Unfortunately it took Greg getting injured for me to see the light.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “I would not wish harm on Lestrade either, but you must admit that the end result is quite exciting from a scientific standpoint. You felt it all the way from Japan! Unassailable proof of both mental links between soulmates, _and_ that the attachment can form without them touching. The soulmate theory community will have a field day with this!”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “I am afraid not. My job requires that my private life be held in the utmost secrecy, especially in regards to the protection of my partner. What has been happening over these past months will have to stay between the four of us. _No_ writing it up in scientific journals.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open. “You’re going to deny the academic and scientific communities the most significant soulmate-related discovery in centuries?” He started to launch into a lecture on intellectual duty, but John grabbed his scarf and yanked, giving him a stern look that had him stuttering to a stop. John pushed a chastened Sherlock out the door, and then he smiled and said, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” before firmly shutting the door behind them.

Greg giggled as he realised that it was indeed February 14th. “Holy shit, I totally forgot that was today. What a way to celebrate the occasion. The soulmantics would have a field day with this.”

Mycroft gave him an affectionate smile. “It is rather disgustingly romantic, isn’t it? My teenage self would have been over the moon.”

“I feel like I could jump over the moon right now.”

Mycroft settled into his arms further, and with molten eyes he whispered, “Touch me?”

“Mmmm, where would you like?”

“Anywhere. _Everywhere_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me gushing about these two lovelies on sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com and on twitter @jadziastone.


End file.
